


After Hours - Once Again

by crossingwinter



Series: The Stripper AU No One Asked For [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (Obviously), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, There's angst in this one guys, fear not it ends in porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually he gets home between two and three—this is late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours - Once Again

**Author's Note:**

> There are mentions of sexual harassment/aggression in this one.

Arya awakens to the sound of the shower running and smiles into the pillow.  So he had come over in the end.  She cracks an eyelid, and stares at the digital alarm clock on her bedstand. It read _4:30 AM_ in dim red letters and she frowns.  Usually he gets home between two and three—this is late.

She sits up and looks across the room. He has left the bathroom door slightly open and a trail of light crosses the bedroom right to the side of the bed that he usually occupies when he comes over.  She sees his shoes lying a little at random by the door of the bathroom and the glint of his car keys inside the heel of one of them.

She waits—he never showers for very long, and when he wakes her, he always feels bad about it and makes it up to her in rather delicious ways, his lips hot on her skin as he kisses his way up and down her body. So she lies back down, stretches her arms above her head so that the tops of her breasts slide up from underneath the blanket, and watches as the clock flickers its way from 4:30 to 4:40 to 4:50.

At 5:00 she frowns.  Gendry never showers that long—never.  Especially not this late—especially not on a Sunday, when he can sleep as late as he wants, knowing that he doesn't have to go into the garage, and that he isn't going to be scheduled for Mott’s. His showers rarely last more than five minutes when she is waiting—ten if there has been glitter.

So Arya pulls herself out of bed, shivering slightly as she leaves her cocoon of blankets and pushes open the door of the bathroom.

He is standing under the shower, body slightly distorted by ripples in the glass encasement, his face upturned into the spray and for a moment, Arya thinks he had fallen asleep standing up.  But he hears the handle of the door hit the wall and turns around, frowning slightly.

“Hey—is everything ok?” he asks.

“You’ve just been in there a while. I wanted to ask you the same thing,” she says.  She sees him shake his head slightly—not in a way that indicates some kind of communication, but rather the way that a dog might shake water from itself after having leapt into a pond.  He turns off the water and steps out of the shower, reaching for a towel which he used to wipe water from his legs, his arms, his chest, and last of all his face and hair before hanging it back up and crossing the bathroom to her, dropping his head to kiss her slowly, his hands coming to her waist and pulling her close to him. Then he gives her a quick hug, reaches for the light switch, takes her hand, and they go back into the bedroom.

He doesn't kiss her, he doesn't wrap himself around her, he doesn't even touch her when he lies down. 

“Ok—what’s wrong?” she asks him, almost nervous at the answer, but more nervous that he’ll just say he is tired, or that it has been a long evening, or that she is imagining things.  Because she isn't—she definitely isn't, and she’d prefer a “I don’t want to talk about it,” because Gendry’s “I don’t want to talk about it”s always lead to talking about it where her exes' had not.

He doesn't say anything though, and she hears the strange fleshy sound of him swallowing and she wants to reach out to him, but she doesn't know if he is in the sort of mood where he wouldn’t want her to, or if he needs it more than ever right now.  So she waits—waits for him to speak, or not to speak, or drift into the heavy breathing that came with snoring. 

“Can you not leave hickies on me before I have to work?” he asks.  He sounds exhausted, edgy, nervous, sad—all sorts of things that she doesn't like. Especially because he has always enjoyed when she sucks love marks onto his neck, his chest, the flesh of his lower belly just above his cock.

“Sure,” she says, more surprised than anything else.

“Thanks.”

She hears him swallow again, and lifts herself up so that she is resting her weight on an elbow, watching him as closely as she can, given the dark of the room.

He heaves a sigh and still staring at the ceiling, not looking up at her at all, he says, “Sometimes it’s just a little rough if they see them.  Like…they think it’s ok.  And I didn’t use to give a shit at all but…I do now.  And it’s…” he trails off and swallows a third time and Arya leans over and kissed him on the collarbone, then on the lips, slowly taking his lower lip between hers and she feels his lips trembling like he is going to cry as he kissed her, kissed her desperately, his hand coming to her waist again—she is sure out of habit. 

And when he breaks the kiss this time, he rolls onto his side, pressing his face between her breasts, shaking slightly, and she wraps her arms around him as tightly as she can, kissing the top of his head and holding him—holding him as closely as she could, feeling the warmth of his trembling breath against her skin, the press of his lips as he kisses her sternum.

“You’re here now,” she whispers to him, because she can’t think of anything else to say.  “You’re here with me.  And it’s just us now—just us.”

He nods and tilts his head up just enough so that she can see his eyes and she wishes he didn’t look so miserable—wishes there was something—anything she could do.  “I hate this,” he says, “I hate doing this—I hate living this life—I hate it.  I want it to stop.”

Arya grips him as tightly as she can, because that’s all she can do.  She knows he won’t let her help him, knows he is too proud to let her even near his tuition, much less his bank account, though at this point, she makes enough that she could help him easily.  It wouldn’t matter—not at all, not even if they were married, she was sure, because no matter what, he would never be able to think of it as anything other than “her money” so long as he didn’t make enough to support himself.  And besides, she wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —bring herself to ruin anything by trying to force him to let her help.  He wouldn’t accept it.  He wouldn’t like it.  He would come to hate her, and she couldn’t bear that, not when he was the brightest point in her life. So instead, she holds him.

“How much more do you need to make?” she asks.

“Too much,” he mumbles into her breasts.

“That’s not a sum,” she says.

“I know.  The tuition prices change every year, don’t they.  So I’m trying to overshoot so that I don’t get fucked later.”  He laughs bitterly. “I figure if I’m careful, I have another six months left—and that’s if I still work at the garage while I’m back in school.”

“Which I assume you plan to?”

“Yes.  Because this shit’s not worth it.”  He rolls away from her, lying on his back again, staring up at the ceiling. “I mean—fuck.  If I’d have known…I just…”

“Known what?” she asks.

He reaches over and runs his hand lazily through her hair.  “It goes back to my dad, right?  Like—apparently he had a deal with my mom in order to keep me out of sight from his wife.” _Ex-wife_ thinks Arya darkly, but she didn’t say anything, she just lets Gendry keep talking. “He either pays for my high school tuition or my college tuition but not both.  And when my mom told me, I was…what…eleven? Twelve?  And I thought—hell if I’m smart enough, I’ll get a scholarship to college—if I work my ass off in high school. And I did.  I worked my fucking ass off because it was way too good a school for my mom to be able to afford sending me to.  And I thought things would be fine, and that financial aid would work out—it didn’t—and that even when it didn’t, Mom and I were going to be able to pull shit together, but… Yeah.”  Arya knew the rest.  Gendry’s mother had started getting nosebleeds halfway through his sophomore year.  And she hadn’t investigated them for too long—not that it would have helped anything. Brain tumors will kill you one way or another.  “And I called him when she…you know…and he was like ‘fuck no.  That wasn’t the deal.’  I mean what kind of a selfish bastard does that?  Asshole.”  He’s glowering—she can tell because the lines of his face are darker. “Fucking asshole.”

And she knows she has to tell him—if only because it will come out at some point, and maybe it will distract him, she doesn’t know. “Gendry?”

“Yeah?”

“I know your dad.”

She feels him stiffen, the sheets pulling around him as his muscles tighten and his head twists to look at her and she knows he’s angry—knows it, because how long has she known?  Or, more importantly, how long has she known and not told him?  “He’s my dad’s best friend.  And yes—he’s a complete asshole,” she says quickly, hoping he won’t explode, hoping he won’t shout the way that Robert does when Robert is drunk.

But he doesn’t.  If anything, he relaxes—or deflates.  She can’t quite tell.  “How long have you known that he’s my—that I’m his…” He doesn’t finish the question.

“I worked it out pretty quick,” she says. “Well, I think Shireen did first.”

“Shireen?”

“She’s your…Robert’s niece.  She was at Sansa’s party and…like…had trouble because you just looked too much like Robert.”

“That long?” he sounds perplexed.  “Why didn’t you—” but he cuts himself off, and she sees that he already knows the answer to that question.  Then, he rolls his eyes and snorts. “Looked too much like Robert.  Great. I love being reminded of how much I look like him.”

“Well…”

“Yeah.  I know.  I just do. I can’t help it.”

“Never grow a beard.”

Gendry laughs.  It isn’t a hysterical one, or a controlled one—if anything, it is like an exhale, like he is slowly relaxing.  “What’s Shireen like?”

“Quiet.  Too smart for her own good.  Nice.”

“Well…that’s good.  Glad someone in the family is.”  He sighs.  “So yeah. He’s a fucker? You’re not just saying that. There’s like empirical data or something on this?”

Arya sits up and is pleased to see that Gendry’s eyes go to her breasts as she lets the sheets fall away before looking back up at her face.  “Yes. I would say so. First off—you’re not his only…”

“Bastard?”

“Do we call them that anymore?”

“I don’t know.  I’m just having fun.”

“Well, if you like then—bastard.  He has like…ten?  I think?  If not more.”

“Ten?” Gendry sputters. “ _How?_ ”

“Well, when a man gets hard and bangs a chick, sometimes there’s a baby,” Arya replies dryly.

“Yeah—but.  I mean…”

“Well, yeah.  That’s the thing, isn’t it?  Like, he has that many children, and when his ex-wife found out, she flipped a fucking shit and divorced him.”

“How’d she find out?” Gendry asks.  “Was he like…unsubtle or something?”

“No.  Well…Yes.  Very. But for the most part, I’d say he didn’t have to be subtle.  Like, mostly he didn’t even try to support them at all.  So you lucked out kind of.” Gendry makes a hum of dry amusement.  “But yeah—Cersei—that’s his ex.  She found out because at a Christmas party—five?  Six? Seven?  I can’t remember—years ago, he took Stannis’ sister-in-law upstairs and banged her in Stannis’ bed.”

“Stannis?”

“Shireen’s dad.  Robert’s little brother.”

“No shit?” Gendry sounds somewhere between disgusted and impressed.  “That’s a whole new low.”

“Yeah.  And she had his kid.  And like—there was no hiding that one.  And the rest just sort of….came out.”

“And your dad’s his best friend?” Gendry sounds more perturbed by that than he has by anything all evening. Morning?  It’s approaching 5:30 now and even if it’s still pitch black outside. 

“My dad’s…loyal.  They get on.  I don’t honestly think they talk much about anything except the past anymore.” Arya shrugs.  “But yeah. I’ve…known your dad all my life.”

“Probably likes you a damn sight more than me,” Gendry snorts.

“Yeah—well…I’m charming.” She decides that now is perhaps not the best time to tell him the whole of it.  That will make him mad again.  She’ll tell him some other time.

“That’s very true,” he grins at her. “Properly distracting too.”

He reaches out and grabs her waist, tugging her so that her back is flush against his chest.  He kisses her neck and then mumbles quietly, “Thanks for telling me.  Thanks for everything. You know…”

“Of course.”

“Yeah.  I’m…I’m glad I came here.  That’s why I was so late,” he sounds a bit chagrinned.  “I couldn’t decide if I wanted to come here or just go home. And…yeah.  I’m glad I came.  Even if it’s late.”

“I’m glad you came too,” she whispers, pulling his hand up from where it’s resting in the curve between her hips and her ribs and kissing his palm. 

They lie like that quietly for a time, and she feels his breath begin to slow against the nape of her neck, feels his heart begin to slow in its thinking against their ribs. 

She’s almost asleep when it comes to her—comes to her so quickly that she can hardly imagine it’s taken her so long. “Gendry?”

“Yes?”

“Move in with me.”

“What?”

She flips over, suddenly excited.  “Move in with me.”

“I—“

“Look.  You don’t have to give me an answer right away, but here’s how I see it. You end up here most nights—even if you aren’t planning to, even if it’s too late and I’m asleep and we don’t talk, I wake up and you’re here.  Like, in the past three weeks, you’ve gone home only…three nights? That means you’re paying _so much_ more than you need to in rent.  So come live here.  I own the house so you won’t have to pay rent and—“

He cuts her off, frowning.  “Is this your way of getting around asking me to take a loan from you, Arya, because if it—“

“No, you idiot—it’s because I love you and because I want you to be here and for this to be a home we share.”

She hadn’t really thought about her words before she said them—hadn’t thought about it at all, but she sees his eyes bulge and she knows why.  She doesn't look away though because it's true—and the realization of it fills her suddenly with warmth. 

"You don't have to answer me right away," she says.  "Just—think about it, ok?  When you're not tired and upset. I do mean it."

She hears him swallow and sees him nod jerkily and she knows she's not going to get another word out of him.  Stubborn bastard, sometimes.  But it's late, and she yawns and lets herself drop back down onto the bed and Gendry pulls her back so she's curled on her side against him.

He kisses the nape of her neck again, and then they settle back to sleep.

"Did you mean it?" he whispers some time later—when Arya hadn't even realized she was still awake.

"Hm?"

"That you love me?"

"Yes.  I mean it," she whispers, finding his hand and squeezing it. She twisted her head and found his lips with hers, warm and chapped.  She smiles as he slips his tongue between her lips, between her teeth to find hers and curl around it the way he is curled around her.  She laughs through her nose and breaks the kiss. "This is a wholly impractical angle for that type of kiss."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Too bad," and his mouth is on her again, his weight resting on his elbow and the hand that had been draped lazily over her side coming up to her chin to hold her face to his as his tongue pushes deeper into her mouth and for a moment, she's not sure whether she wants to laugh and kiss him or bite his tongue so he releases her and she can get into a better position for this.  But she can't quite bring herself to do either—largely because Gendry's hand has drifted down to her breast and is toying with her nipple, rolling it between his fingers, circling it then releasing it and cupping the entire breast gently, as though he feels compelled to support it and keep it from hanging loosely on her chest.  He massages it, moving each finger individually, first his thumb, then his pinky, then his middle finger which he flicks over her stiffened nipple and she hisses slightly.

"Problem?" he asks.

"Cheeky bastard."

"Oh I'm cheeky?"

"Yes."

He squeezes her breast once again for good measure, then drops his hand even lower, skating it over her stomach, ghosting fingers up and down, back and forth across her flesh.  His lips leave her mouth and come to rest at the crook of her neck, right above her vein and he sucks, drawing the skin in between his teeth and running his tongue over it, nipping, releasing, kissing while his hand drops lower and lower and Arya arches her back into him, feeling how he is beginning to stiffen because his cock is resting between the cheeks of her ass and she smiles, rocking her hips against it.

"Cheeky," he mutters, his hand leaving her stomach to pinch her ass.  She yelps and he grins into her neck even as his hand slips down between her legs, hovering through the hair above her cleft for just a moment before using his knee to nudge her lower leg forward slight, sending her slightly off balance. He then catches the upper leg just under the knee, lifts it and curls it back so that it's her foot is resting flat on the bed behind his ass. Then, he slides his fingers up her inseam until he reaches her cunt.

She sighs, knowing he'll get cocky if she does, but not really caring, because it's too damn late and he's running his pointer and middle fingers along the outside of her inner labia, squeezing them together every now and then and letting his fingers become coated in moisture that's beginning to gather just inside her.  It's soothing, almost—as soothing as it can be to have him rubbing along her, knowing that he'll start doing something else soon. She has to give it to him—he likes to try new—

His lips are back on her neck at the same time that he slips the very tips of his fingers inside her and she moans, because they aren't all the way in—not all the way, and he's spreading them, stretching her and she wonders if he'll put a third one in—hopes he will because maybe it's just because his cock is so damn thick but two fingers hardly seems substantial anymore.  He twists his hand, letting the fingers rotate just inside her and she lets out a small whine.

"Something the matter?" he whispers into her neck and she can feel his teeth and knows that his lips are pulled back in a smirk and she has half a mind to tell him to get on with it, but knows that that will make him even more annoying, so she doesn't say anything, she just arches her lower back and rubs her ass along his cock, up and down, pushing to see just how much she can take between her cheeks.  He groans slightly and she feels him begin to undulate his hips behind her and his fingers grow still inside of her as he focuses briefly on his cock.  She smirks to herself, glad to know that even if he is trying to get her to beg, she can still exert a little bit of her will on him.

"You like that?" she asks him.

"Your ass on my cock?"

"Yes."

"When haven't I?"

She laughs quietly, and gives him a good long rub, but it's as though his words have stirred her and his fingers have begun moving again.  He removes one, but dips the other in all the way, gently rubbing it against the walls of her cunt before pulling it out and using her own slickness to rub circles up along her clit.  Her breath catches in her throat and she finds herself completely torn between pressing herself against his hand, or back against his cock. 

Not that it matters for very long because his hips are now rocking quite forcefully against her rear and the motion of them pushes her forward into his waiting hand and she wonders briefly how it is that even lazy almost-six-in-the-morning sex can end with her head lolling on her neck, her breath catching in her chest and what feels like every hair on the surface of her body standing on edge as he rubs her with one finger, slowly circling around her, knowing full well that he's driving her more mad than anything else because he knows her body well enough at this point to know that one finger isn't enough for anything and hardly counts as sex in her mind. And yet, there he is, with one finger, making her breath come shallow and the leg that's thrown over both of his begin to tremble, though whether because the position is slightly awkward and she's not fully balanced or because everything is growing all at once, she can't quite tell.

"Gendry," she manages as he nips at her neck.

"Hm?" And she knows he's teasing her—knows it because if he weren't he'd just do something, but instead both his finger and his hips lose speed and she could shout at him except she can't because it wouldn't do any good.  So she twists her neck and finds his lips again with hers, her tongue going into his mouth this time, twining around his as he breathes heavily through his nose.  And, right as she elicits a delighted little huff out of him, she reaches between them and grabs his cock, shifting her hips and bringing it between her legs—between her legs but not inside because maybe he can be teased for a change, maybe she'll drive _him_ as mad as he drove her.

His delighted little huff turns briefly into a laugh, then into a groan as she begins moving her hips again, letting her moisture drip over his shaft, then letting the heat of her cunt warm his cock.

"Fuck—Arya," he gasps as she slides so far forward that his tip is right at her entrance, then she slides back. She feels a hot and sticky substance on her thigh and knows that he just spurted a small bit of pre-cum and she smiles, letting her head fall back against the pillow, exposing her neck which he presses his lips to and sucks.  "There's going to be a hicky here," he says.

"I have scarves," she says and his hips pause for a moment as he sucks her skin into his mouth again, then his hand drops down to her clit again and begins circling again.

This time, he is not teasing, and she knows she's blown his intentions of teasing her for however long he wanted straight to hell because he's circling three fingers over her clit now, pressing against her flesh with the sort of insistence that usually means that he means business this time and Arya lets herself relax, letting her hips drop down to the mattress, relaxing the muscles of her legs, slowing pumping of her hips because she knows that it won't be long from here and that if she relaxes herself, everything will be that much better.

"Oh—now you're ready to keep it slow," he grunts, pumping his cock harder underneath her.

"Well, now I know you're going to get me there soon," she shrugged, "So I'm just along for the ride."

"Like I said," he took her clit between two fingers, "cheeky," and he squeezes—not enough to be a pinch but just enough—just enough.

It feels like waves emanating out of his fingers and into her body as her cunt convulses, heat radiating out of her as if she has is supersaturated with his touch. She gasps, she calls out his name and several other expletives, then she's quiet, breathing heavily as her whole body shakes with the weight of the orgasm from her lips—throbbing in time with her cunt—down to her toes curling into the bed sheet, curling into Gendry's leg.  But she feels so empty—perhaps more aware of it now because she feels as though her cunt is grabbing at his cock, just outside her opening, and if she could form words, she would ask him to press into her because she knows he can—knows he could if he wanted to—knows the he knows that she wants him to, but he doesn't. Instead, he waits as she rides out aftershocks, one finger—one again—lightly circling her clit as she becomes aware once again that she is lying in bed, that it is nearly six in the morning and she is still awake because Gendry is home and Gendry is here.

"You see," he whispers, "I like going slowly because you really fall apart."

"You like breaking me?" she asks, trying to put a pinch of teasing into her voice.

"Yes.  Because then I get to watch you pull yourself back together again and you're so amazingly beautiful."  As he says the word 'beautiful' he slides into her, his hand rising to the leg he had swung over his hips and bringing it back down to lie on top of her other one.  He groans. "Fuck—you're tight like this."

She smiles, but doesn't say anything—she just lies there, basking in the feeling of him pushing in and out of her, of his breath growing shorter in her ear, of his hand going up to grip her neglected breasts again, toying with nipples still stiff from the cool and from her orgasm.  And the faster he pumps, the wider her smile grows because this—this is what it's supposed to be, isn't it?  This is what it's supposed to be early on a Sunday morning when you both should be asleep because you're exhausted but somehow you end up fucking instead.  This is what she wants and oh, yes, she really does love him.

"Arya," he calls as he comes. It's almost a yelp it's so high in his register, and his chest is heaving against hers as his cock throbs and she reaches down and finds his balls between her legs and he whimpers slightly as she rubs first one, and then the other, then drifts her fingers up trying to reach that spot right between his legs where a cunt would be if he had one, but not quite able to because of the angle.  So she rests her hand on his leg as he relaxes and slowly pulls himself out of her, twisting her around so that she's facing him for the first time in many minutes.

She kisses him first.  Sometimes she feels like it's a war to see who will kiss whom first, and kisses his nose, his cheeks, his lips, lazy and slow and warm—warm because the heat of his chest against hers is warmer than anything she's felt in what feels like ages and as he holds her to him she feels at ease.

"I love you," he whispers.

And she smiles into his chest, feeling his heart beating through her lips.


End file.
